


Wreaths of time

by Ruiniel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst and Romance, Elves, F/M, Fall of Gondolin, Flashbacks, Gondolin, Humor, Redemption, Slow Burn, The Silmarillion References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruiniel/pseuds/Ruiniel
Summary: For ages he lingered unhoused in Mandos, and when his judgement comes, it is a strange one. Reborn in the 21st century and stripped of memories, Maeglin gets a new lease on life - as a mortal. But the past is never far behind, and when he meets a certain someone, things get complicated - again. Somewhere, the Valar must be laughing. AU.---DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended.
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Maeglin | Lómion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Clean slate

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Darkness flows past me like swift currents over crumbling stones.

I remember water, stone, the skies. Others, sweeping by me in the ever gloom, lingering in both anguish and peace beneath drops of silver dew. The echoes of their shadows once brushed mine. That was long ago. Now, I am alone.

There is nothing here but the Door and the Night.

I rush ahead, leaving it all behind. Somewhere dwells the knowledge that I have done this before; that I am the moving piece of a great unknown, ever fringing the edges of a long-sought goal, and never reaching it.

I yearn for the stars and their pale bloom; to feel the cold, and the heat - the wind and the hearth. There is a faint reminder of frigid gusts lifting my hair, hissing beyond the branches of towering trees. Within me, brims memory.

The pull urging me on is foreign yet familiar, stern but gentle, like mighty hands cradling a newborn babe. A deep voice rumbles in soundless chants, striking true, and a flash of light blinks in the abyss.

There is a great forest drenched in deepening dusk, looming above me, blotting out the light of day. I lose myself in shades of misty green. There is soft moss under my feet, the sap of wilderness dancing in the air. Water gushes around my bare ankles. I see Mother, willowy like a wraith, swaying about a shadowed glade with me in her arms. Dry leaves fall, caught in her sable hair. Her lilting voice is forlorn, her eyes are weary. Even so, she sings to me.

I pierce through the vast emptiness thrust upon me. I see a heavy hammer and a burning forge, and tall white walls. A lithe figure stands watch, alone, her face hidden from my sight. Her long cloak snaps in the wind, sunrays melt in her hair.

Pain. It wades through me like a bruising gale, lined with desire, ironclad with envy and hatred.

So much hatred.

The floodgates open to every moment of struggle, every hidden glance. I recall my own mistakes, great and small, the poison of my thoughts. Oblivion is peace, but the past swells around me like murals melting into one another, turned endless ripples in an ocean.

I feel the burns, the shackles, the biting chill of a hidden recess. Breathing is a chore as molten eyes scour through me, picking at my seams. Grinning shadows claw at my shame, mock my desires.

Hatred spreads and burns me to embers. I have no voice to beg, no flesh, no heartbeat; nothing but illusions that once made a life.

A flaming white city appears before me, its towers crumbling into nothing. A blade slashes and misses, wielded by slender hands. The memories cling to me. I sink deeper into their mire; there is bitter soot in my mouth, cruelty in my eyes, malice in my heart.

I remember. Guilt stretches me so thin I am torn asunder, to scatter in the careless darkness. But as I writhe and churn without hope, a tunneled path is revealed ahead.

No.

I do not wish it, not again; but the pull is stronger now, and I am nothing. My voiceless plea fades away unheard, lost to the heavy silence.

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The phone grumbled at full volume, vibrating on the nightstand with robotic clarity.

Long, pale fingers reached and groped around the flat surface, missing the device that teetered over the edge and fell to the floor, still ringing.

A weak groan, followed by a stir, and then a mop of glossy black hair revealed itself among crumpled covers and pillows.

He rose in bed, slowly, his face in his hands amid the stillness.

"Curse you, Sal, with your cheap whiskey and Coke drinks," the young man muttered in a hoarse voice as he struggled to be free of the sheets, his movement sluggish from a sudden, splitting headache pressing on his temples.

Rising to stand, he walked through the darkened room towards the window. The world still carried the grey of dawn, and already crowded streets signaled the start of another busy day in the Queens borough of New York. It was a bright, hot summer this year, and he squinted against the morning, running a hand over his sleepy features.

After another binge-drinking night with Sal, who was the first to brave such pursuits, he was out of sync. But being out of it was becoming a way of life for him, or so it seemed.

Plopping back down onto his bed, he grimaced at the painful pressure pounding in his head. Long, disheveled strands fell like spider silk over his arms and bare chest as the young man reached for a tall glass by the nightstand.

He sighed. "I should stop doing this," he said to himself, lifting the glass to his lips. As he drank, a few drops of water dribbled down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at the empty glass. "I really should."

The phone rang again, grilling on his nerves. "Who the _fuck_ could it be at this hour?"

He grabbed the unfortunate device and looked at the screen, pinching the bridge of his nose before answering.

"Yeah."

A raspy voice greeted him on the other end. "Matt, my man, you up?"

"No thanks to you," the other mumbled, rising again and pulling his too-loose trousers up with his other hand.

"Last night was really something, huh? Hungover?"

A weary grumble.

"Fine, don't answer that. Hey did you take that babe home? You know, the redhead- "

He frowned. Obviously, he hadn't, since there was no one here. The redhead-... He couldn't remember. Hurried kisses in dark corners flashed through his mind. He cringed. "What is it, Sal?"

He stepped barefooted into the kitchen and placed the phone on speaker, moving to prepare a hasty cup of black coffee. The coffee machine stopped working days ago. He stared at it, blinking slowly. He sighed through his nose.

"Oh, right," the voice continued. "Can I hitch a ride with you to the workshop today? My car's busted."

Countless times he'd urged Sal to take that old thing to service. "I told you, the radiator- "

"Yeah, yeah, you told me - no use rubbing it in. Can you pick me up or not?"

He took the dirty French press lying in the kitchen sink and rinsed the appliance, then placed a kettle with water to boil. "I should let you take the sub, for what you pulled last night."

"Hey, you were totally in for the whiskey - lo and behold, you were actually fun to be around for once, with none of that dark, brooding vibe that poops all over everyone's mood. A welcome surprise, props for that. Usually, the drunker you get, the worse it gets. I've always found that a little scary, even if the babes seem to like it. Maybe it was that whiskey you so despise that did good by you- "

He groaned. "Look, Sal," Matt cut in, pouring boiling water into the glass container. "I have to go. Be ready, I'll be over in 30."

"Will do, and hey, don't leave me hangin'."

"I'll think about it, now scram," and he hung up the phone.

He downed a small cup of coffee in two sips, took a fast shower, then retraced his steps to the small bedroom and threw on a plain black T-shirt and jeans. Returning to the bathroom, he tied his hair back into a thick, practical braid. He peeked into the chipped mirror, running a hand over his face. Black, almond-shaped eyes stared back at him. Stubble lined his jaw in places - not enough to waste time on shaving it off. When done, he grabbed his car keys from the counter and left the apartment.

Today would be a full one, and this drowsy state did not help one bit. He trudged towards his car - an old black Honda bought from his first few salaries at the workshop and a loan from his mentor and guardian, Eli. Hitting the pedal, he drove to the eastern side of Queens where Sal lived.

Despite being annoyed with the sap at the moment, Sal had been his first and closest friend since high school. They stayed in touch and even ended up working together in the same place, the Galvorne metalworking studio owned by Eli. They were rather different, no doubt about that. Sal liked music, Matt liked metals, his craft, and little else - that went for people, too. Sal was more outspoken, more outgoing, and very good at keeping his friend's dour facets in check. This made Sal's less than positive traits bearable, at least most of the time.

He stopped in front of an apartment building, and there was no one down yet. He looked at his watch. Eli cared little about cut and dry punctuality. Still, making a habit out of lateness wouldn't go over well with the rest of their team at work.

His impatient fingers tapped the steering wheel, his mind lost in thoughts of the previous night - trying to remember details that eluded him; such as the girl. What was her name? He was terrible as ever with names, but never forgot a face. His eyes lingered unseeing on passers-by, and then looking to his left, he saw the bulky figure of Sal nearing.

_Finally._

The car door opened and slammed shut, and the smell of cheap cologne filled the space. Matt wrinkled his nose, gagging, and shot his friend a sharp glance. "Why do you insist on wearing that stuff?"

"Nice to see you too," Sal shifted into the leather seat, pointing an unfinished sandwich at him. "It's called flair. And I don't comment on your choice to always wear black like some Grim Reaper substitute," he rebutted, gesturing with the sandwich at Matt's dark, minimalistic attire. "Anyhow, I'm here, let's rumble."

Shaking his head, Matt started the car. Then, to his increasing dismay, Sal happily relayed the events of the previous night.

"... and then, this girl comes along, she's all over you, and I mean - you really remember nothing?"

"No."

Sal shook his head. "At first you threw her those nasty looks, I really thought you'd up and leave. But thanks to yours truly," and he made an irksome gesture with his hand towards himself, "you soon saw the error of your ways," Sal smiled broader at his friend's deepening frown. "And-... oh, come on," he followed, as Matt's expression grew morose."Why so uptight all of a sudden? You're twenty-nine years old and single, not too shabby either. I don't get why you keep running away from this stuff. People don't bite."

"Never took you for the matchmaker type," his friend said, his eyes on the rear-view mirror, thinking he could use a cigarette.

"Don't be a dick. Looking out for you, that's all."

Matt fell silent, unable to rein a smile. Few people ever walked into his life and stayed. Sal was a constant. He could recall no one else - apart from Eli.

They reached their workplace after wading through the usual traffic. Matt stopped close to a sturdy one-story building with red brick walls. There was a mounted sign on the facade that read 'Galvorne Metalworks'. After parking the car they each stepped out of the vehicle, their work packs slung over their shoulders.

"By the way," Sal added, "you left work early yesterday, so you didn't catch this, but I think there's something afoot with ol' Eli," he said as both entered the wide, noisy space where others in the team had already picked up their tools. Some waved greetings their way.

"How do you mean?" Matt asked, intrigued, and a little uneasy. Life at the workshop was good, always had been. There was stability to it, and it suited him. He wanted nothing else.

"There you are."

He turned at the gravel-like voice as a tall, broad-shouldered man approached them.

Sal smirked knowingly, looking a bit too smug for Matt's liking. "I guess we're about to find out."

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	2. Changes

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_I watch Mother, her back turned to me as she gazes out the window. Her shoulders are hunched together, her head tilted to one side in musing._

_My boots make the slightest sweeping hiss on the polished timber floors._

_"You spoke with him."_

_Mother nods as I near, standing at her side. I peer at the gloom of dusk rising amid the great trees that shield our forest home._

_"And what did he say?" I search her cold face for meaning, following the dips and hollows in her features, the traits so like my own._

_She tucks her hands in the folds of her dress. A long lamp fills the chamber with pale blue light, lost in her shining hair. My mother looks my way, at last, and in the dimness, I see it - a soft shadow marring her ivory cheek._

_I stare in startled dismay and lean forward, my trembling hand reaching for her face._

_She stays my touch, her fingers grazing my knuckles. "He said 'no'."_

_A flood of boiling rage robs me of words, shadows the corners of my vision. He had not done this before. I had known his heavy hand many times, but it was always different with Mother._

_She tips my chin up as I look away, guilt mingling with my anger. "I will try again. Lómion—"_

_I shake my head, briefly gripping her shoulder before I turn on my heel, rushing outside the main gate of our reclusive dwelling. One should fight their own battles, but there is a waver in my step as I hasten on the cobbled path leading to the smithy._

_A few servants cutting my way give shallow bows, casting furtive glances. I enter the smithy and cross many long, lamplit chambers until the air is dense with heat and the clamor of metal greets me. I linger at the entrance to the forge, waiting, seething._

_There is the even tempo of the hammer; stooped over his work, my father is in the midst of beveling a blade. I have seen the Naugrim at their craft, but his skill seems yet unmatched to me._

_"I have already spoken to your mother," he says without looking my way, his hands moving with expert precision. His voice follows the cadence of his strikes._

_"I saw the mark of your conclusion." My voice must be shaking, or I cannot tell. For the first time in my life, I want to hurt him._

_His bright eyes cut to mine as he quenches the new blade._

_"Why do you cage us here?" I demand. My courage fails the moment the words leave my mouth, but it is done now. He must know._

_He retrieves the workpiece and selects a smaller hammer, returning to his craft as though he had not heard._

_"They are my kin, even if strangers to you," I brave. "They have done you no wrong. Even the Naugrim trade with the Golodhrim. You know Mother misses her own. Why can I not know them—"_

_His gloved fist strikes the wooden table, curbing my speech; utensils scatter upon the floor._

_"Because you are my_ son _!"_

_His voice is crumbling gravel, as ever in his rare spells of anger. But even granting the gravest of lessons, he had always been calm and collected. Now, his eyes burn in warning and ire darkens his face._

_"You are of the house of Eöl, Maeglin, my son," he says, "and not of the Golodhrim. All this land is the land of the Teleri, and I will not deal nor have my son deal with the slayers of our kin, the invaders and usurpers of our homes. In this you shall obey me, or I will set you in bonds."_

_I cannot speak for the sheer menace and intensity of his rebuke, the hatred dripping from his words like puss from a wound._

_His eyes follow the outraged scowl on my face, and a sneer pulls at his lips. "Now, either come aid me, or leave me be."_

_He attends my silence for a breath, sharp eyes lit in challenge._

_My features turn blank. "My lord," I bow shortly before turning away. The resumed smite of his hammer hounds my retreating steps._

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Matt stared with interest at the expression on Eli's face. It was a rare show of eagerness, unrest, and - what was all the more jarring - excitement.

"Let's go to my office," he urged with a flick of his wrist, starting ahead in a long stride.

Looking at each other with equally puzzled expressions, Matt and Sal followed.

"... and you're sure you don't know what this might be about?" Matt probed while nodding greetings to some of their colleagues.

Sal rolled his eyes. "Look, all I know is yesterday, he mentioned something about a change come our way - he called it an opportunity and said he'd share more today, once he got a hold of you too."

Looking after the tall figure of Eli, Matt recognized a twinge of something unknown, burrowing itself deeply into his center. It might have been unease, but he couldn't quite pinpoint the cause. He let it slide. There would be some sort of change - he knew it, had felt it the moment he'd met his mentor's steady gaze and saw the set muscles in his jaw. What unsettled him more was the nature of what was to come - he'd always struggled to deal with major shifts in his life.

Lost in thought, he entered after Sal and closed the door of Eli's office behind them.

He looked absently to the pieces of armor and weaponry adorning the walls, each one made by Eli's own hand. Matt recognized many of the pieces as personal projects he and his mentor had worked on together - some resulted from the sheer pleasure Eli took in his art, while others had been specifically chosen to teach his apprentice certain skills and techniques.

"I have news," Eli said then, and Matt looked up, his mind drawn back to the present. It stunned him to witness the light smile on the other's usually stern face. Not to say it didn't suit.

Eli was taller than everyone Matt knew, towering over them with a commanding aura that came naturally to him, as though it were innate. He was well past his forties and his long dark hair, now neatly pulled into a braid, was streaked with silver. Despite the years that barely showed on his face, the energy he exerted was a driving force for most people that came to know him. It seemed to Matt that Eli had not changed at all, in all the years they had known each other.

Still smiling, Eli reached for a few papers lying on his desk. "I'll keep this short. There's an offer - a hefty one, different to anything our workshop's done before."

"Sounds like a challenge," Sal interjected.

"For weeks now," Eli went on, "I've been in contact with the production designer and property master for a movie project currently in the works - we're talking blockbuster level. They're currently in the pre-production stage and looking to hire a studio for the making of props such as weapons and armor."

Matt blinked, stemming a potent surge of both interest and worry.

"The details are here," Eli pushed the papers towards them. Matt lifted one, and his eyes widened at the numbers.

" _This includes the nomination of a weapons master to be present on set at all times,_ " he read a random passage. "This is…"

"... tremendous news!" Sal burst out. "Wait," he looked hopefully at Eli, "so you already accepted?"

"I did, and I've met with the others. The reaction's been positive."

Sal whistled. "So that's why everyone was buzzing when we came in! You're a sly one, Mr. E," he added, his face splitting into a boyish grin.

"The filming locations listed are spread… all around the world," Matt said, skimming over the papers as he read what he assumed was the offer.

"It involves a significant amount of traveling, yes, but we could all do with some excitement, couldn't we?" Eli said as he took the papers from Matt, whose face showed nothing, his eyes on Eli's hands.

"All expenses paid, I assume?" Sal asked, his grin broader when Eli nodded with a smile. He took a copy lying on the desk. "I'll be in the back," he tapped Matt on the shoulder before heading out. "See you later, Mr. E."

Matt heard the door open, then close. He had not moved. He raised his head. Eli was watching him closely.

His trade master then took a seat behind his desk, leaning back against the backrest of his chair, his fingers steepled together. "You look troubled."

Matt ran a hand over his face. "No, this is very sudden, that's all."

"And you've never felt comfortable with change."

He hadn't - partly because of the unsteadiness that marked his youth; straying from orphanage to orphanage, ending up on the streets, and finally running into Eli. The manner of their meeting had been unconventional, to say the least. His eyes set on a particular blade gleaming off the wall behind Eli's head.

"Remember what I told you when we first ran into each other?" Eli asked.

Matt snorted, his pale features brighter at the memory. "You mean after I stole your most expensive prop at that crafts fair and you ran after me until I tired?"

"Yes, that time," his elder nodded with a dry smile.

"You gave me another chance."

Homeless and struggling, Matt had stolen the blade intending to sell it for food. Eli outran him, threw him into a wall; but instead of calling the police, he scolded Matt well and proper - then, to Matt's unending surprise, offered him a job.

"Look, kid," Eli looked him over. "Call it a hunch. But I think fresh sights and unknown places will be good for you. I feel it. You trusted me back then, and not to brag, but look at you now - the best smith I have on payroll."

Matt scratched his chin, his lips curling in a dark grin. "Thanks for confirming my worth; even if it's only meant to butter me up."

Eli took a small pocket knife lying on his desk, flicking it between his fingers. "I know you prefer a constant to unfamiliar terrain."

His employee tilted his head to one side and crossed his arms. "This is where you tell me to trust you again, and that I won't regret it."

Keen eyes narrowed on him, and Matt again felt a growing sliver of unease. Eli never glared, never lost his temper in all the years Matt had been his apprentice. But there was something in his manner that could pierce deeper and intimidate more than any flaring bout of rage. He just had that effect on people.

"You can refuse, of course," he dropped the pocket knife, spreading his arms wide. "Stay here and work on the smaller orders that are due."

Matt smirked, the notion even more ridiculous when spoken aloud - and Eli knew it. "Give me those papers. I want to have a closer look for myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golodhrim - Noldor  
> Naugrim - Dwarves
> 
> “You are of the house of Eöl, Maeglin, my son,” he said, “and not of the Golodhrim. All this land is the land of the Teleri, and I will not deal nor have my son deal with the slayers of our kin, the invaders and usurpers of our homes. In this you shall obey me, or I will set you in bonds.”  
> \- The Silmarillion, of Maeglin


End file.
